In a Heartbeat
by twindragonsx1
Summary: As he stares down death, bleeding out while a gun is pointed straight at his head, Raz realizes that he'd do it all again for her in a heartbeat.


His heartbeat quickens as he charges forward, pumping his legs harder and faster as pure battle rage and instinct take over. Adrenaline fills his body as he looses a savage battle cry, fearless, undaunted by the weather and the enemy. He sprays the area in front of him with his machine gun, downing two of the four guards before they can react. The others return fire even as his rounds find their mark on their companions, unleashing a storm of bullets. He grunts as one hits him in the shoulder and another nicks him in the neck as he rushes down the closest guard and bowls him over. He aims and pulls the trigger, filling the fallen soldier's gut with hot lead. The final guard seizes the opportunity and opens fire. One round embeds itself in his lower back, and he swears as he turns on him, emptying the remainder of his magazine into the Imperial soldier.

The wounded Gallian falls forward, catching himself with his gun and using it as a crutch to lean on. He gasps for air as the adrenaline begins to fade, and the pain slowly fills in the hollowness left behind. His knees buckle and his legs almost fail him as he stumbles forward. He reaches the control console, and raises his gun high above his head. He roars, bringing the butt end down and slamming it into the console with minimal effect. Again, he smashes the console, this time making a sizable dent in the middle of the panel. And with a third and powerful swing, he pulverizes the control console, the Ragnite-powered generators above sputtering to a stop and slowly fading out. Warm electric blue gives way to cold, dreary grey as the Darcsen drops his weapon, the gun clattering on the metal floor. His heartbeat slows, the action over with. He collapses, catching himself on the ruined console before slowly turning around and sliding down to the floor. On the radio, he hears his friend and commander giving the order to advance. He smiles, congratulating himself on a job well done, then gasps in pain. He hopes his friends on the other end cannot hear him, but has his fears confirmed as the voice of his best friend, worried and concerned, filters through the radio. Lifting a hand to his neck, he gingerly feels the wound, and pulls away to see his glove bathed in crimson blood. He grits his teeth in pain and assures his comrades through the radio with empty promises and assurances. I'm fine, don't worry about me, keep going and continue with the mission, he says. His voice is raspy and already weak, he notices as he puts pressure on his wounds in an attempt to stanch the bleeding. The voices of his friends can be heard through his radio, and he closes his eyes and leans his head back against the metal console.

And as he lies bleeding, his gloves and his uniform stained red, he can feel it. The numbing pain radiating from his wounds, the frigid air around him and the harsh coldness of the metal floor beneath him. He feels his own heartbeat, pulsing weaker and weaker with every second, his life ebbing away as he desperately tries to hold on. The metallic tang of blood fills his mouth, and he spits it out, an act of defiance that no one sees. The bleak, stark-white landscape stretches before him, seemingly for miles with no end. He is surrounded by ice, snow, and the bodies of the dead, an eerie and morbid scene. He croaks out his words, his words to her, that beautiful girl. The one with the perfect aim, the one that always watched over him, the one that was with him through everything. He can hear how strained he sounds, and he curses his weakness with everything left in him. He can hear the howling wind rushing past his ears, and he can hear his heartbeat steadily grow fainter and fainter. He can hear her distressed pleas and cries from the other end of the radio, tinny and staticky as it is. It's still beautiful to him, though- still smooth and luscious despite the anguish and despair that rips through it. He pulls a cigarette from his pocket, warped and deformed from the hardships of the frontline, and rolls it around in his fingers. He can hear it then- the sound of boots marching briskly up the stairs, the sounds of metal on metal echoing towards him. The reality of it all grips him suddenly, the reality that there is close to no hope of seeing her again. The Darcsen's heartbeat quickens for the briefest of moments, a raging fire lighting within his body once more, a call to arms. A call to fight, a warrior's will to let nothing stand in his way, to push forward until he sees her again.

And just as quickly as the fire is lit, it is extinguished, the roaring fire dying down to only the smallest of embers. He sighs and reaches for his gun, but changes his mind and simply drops his hand onto his thigh. He holds the cigarette between his index and middle fingers and grins cockily as the footfalls of the encroaching Imperial soldiers closes in. And contrary to his expectations, he feels his heartbeat slow as a deep calmness envelops him. Even as a soldier spots him and approaches, rifle pointed straight at his head, he remains unshaken.

The lone Gallian thinks back to his childhood days in the slums of Hafen. He thinks back to the day he first met her, timid and shy. To the time he spent with her then, and of her compassion and kindness despite his Darcsen blood. He thinks back to their days at boot camp, teaching her how to handle her rifle and encouraging her to keep up. To when she became the squad's top sniper after he fixed her rifle scope. To their first days on the field, serving alongside each other, with her watching his back. And as he stares down death, the cold, hard barrel of an Imperial soldier's rifle, he has another realization. This time, it does not bring him dread, nor regret. Instead, it brings him great satisfaction and overwhelming pride. He grins again, a massive, shit-eating grin as he asks if the soldier would have a smoke with him, one last act of defiance towards the Imperial forces. A split second before the soldier pulls the trigger, his thoughts drift back to her one last time. The dark-haired sniper that was the one constant in his ever-changing life of persecution, fear and uncertainty.

He would do it all again. All of the pain, blood, sweat and tears, he would go through again.

For her, he would do it all again in a heartbeat.


End file.
